And the silver month is bright. And the silver month brightly over the silver century froze
"Poem without a Hero" Anna Akhmatova
Part I
year thirteen
(1913)Di rider finirai
Pria dell' aurora.
Don Giovanni(Stop laughing
Before dawn comes.
Don Juan (it.)“I still have a song or sorrow
The last winter before the war.
"White Flock"Introduction
From fortieth year,
As from a tower I look at everything.
Like saying goodbye again
With what I said goodbye a long time ago
Like being baptized
And I go under the dark vaults.dedication
And since I didn't have enough paper
I'm writing on your draft.
And now someone else's word comes through
And like a snowflake on my hand
Trustingly and without reproach melts.
And the dark eyelashes of Antinous
Suddenly they got up, and there is green smoke,
And the breeze blew relatives ...
Is it not the sea? - No, it's just needles.
Graveyard and in boiling foam
Closer, closer... Marche funebre1..."In my hot youth -
when George the Third was King…”
Byron.2I lit the sacred candles
And together with those who did not come to me
Forty-first I meet the year
But the Lord's strength is with us,
The flame drowned in the crystal
And wine, like poison, burns ...
It's bursts of creepy conversation
When all the delusions are resurrected,
And the clock still doesn't strike...
There is no measure of my anxiety,
I stand on the threshold like a shadow
I guard the last comfort.
And I hear a lingering call
And I feel cold wet.
I'm cold, I'm cold, I'm burning
And, as if remembering something,
Turning half a turn
In a quiet voice I say:
You Wrong: Doge's Venice
It's nearby. But masks in the hallway
And cloaks, and wands, and crowns
You will have to leave today.
I decided to glorify you today,
New Year's bastards.
This Faust, that Don Juan...
And some more with a tympanum
The goat-leg was dragged.
And the walls parted for them,
Sirens howled in the distance
And, like a dome, the ceiling swelled.
Everything is clear: not to me, so to whom ?!
Dinner was prepared here not for them.
And they weren't going to be forgiven.
Chromium last, coughs dryly.
I hope unclean spirit
You did not dare to enter here.
I forgot your lessons
Rednecks and false prophets,
But you have not forgotten me.
As the future ripens in the past,
So in the future the past smolders
Terrible holiday of dead leaves.
Only ... because I was afraid of mummers.
For some reason I always thought
That some kind of extra shadow
Among them without a face and a name
Messed up. Let's open the meeting
On New Year's Day.
That midnight Hoffmannian
I won't tell the world
And I would ask others ... Wait,
You don't seem to be on the list
In capuchins, clowns, lysis -
Striped dressed up with a mile,
Painted variegated and rude -
You are the same age as the oak of Mamre,
The century-old interlocutor of the moon.
Do not deceive feigned groans:
You write iron laws, -
Hamurabi, Lykourgi, Solons
You must learn.
A creature of strange disposition,
He doesn't wait for gout and fame
Hastily seated him
In jubilee lush chairs,
And carries along the flowering heather,
Through the deserts their triumph.
And I'm not guilty of anything - not of this,
Not in the other, and not in the third. Poets
In general, sins did not stick.
Dance before the Ark of the Covenant,
Or perish ... but what is there! about it
Poems told them better.Shout: "Hero to the fore!"
Don't worry
Definitely out now...
Well you all run away together
As if everyone found a bride
Leaving eye to eye
Me in the dusk with this frame
From which the same looks
Still unmourned hour.
It doesn't all come up right away.
Like one musical phrase
I hear a few confused words.
After... a flat step ladder,
A flash of gas and in the distance
Clear voice: "I'm ready to die."You are more voluptuous, you are more bodily
Alive, brilliant shadow.
Evgeny BaratynskyThe satin coat is open...
Do not be angry with me, my dove,
Not you, but myself I will execute.
You see, there, behind the grainy blizzard,
Theatrical Arabchats
They start a fuss again.
How grandly the skids ring
And the goat's cavity drags.
Bye, shadows! He is there alone.
On the wall his thin profile -
Gabriel, or Mephistopheles
Yours, beauty, paladin?
You ran to me from the portrait
And an empty frame before the light
Waiting for you on the wall
So dance alone without a partner.
I'm the role of the ancient choir
Agree to accept...You came to Russia from nowhere
Oh my blond wonder
Columbine of the tenth years!
Why are you looking so vaguely and vigilantly? —
Petersburg doll, actor,
You are one of my doppelgangers.
To other titles, this one is also necessary
Attribute. Oh friend of poets!
I am the heir of your glory.
Here, to the music of the marvelous master,
Leningrad wild wind
I see the dance of the court bonesWedding candles float
Kissing shoulders under the veil
The temple thunders: "Dove, come! .."
Mountains of Parma violets in April
And a date in the Maltese Chapel,
Like poison in your chest.The house of the motley comedy wagon,
Peeling cupids
They guard the Venus altar.
You cleaned the bedroom like a gazebo.
Village girl-neighbor -
The cheerful stapler does not recognize.And golden candlesticks
And on the walls of azure saints -
It's half-stolen good.
All in flowers, like "Spring" by Botticelli,
You took friends in bed
And the duty Pierrot languished.I haven't seen your husband
I, the cold clinging to the glass
Or the chiming of the fortress clock.
Don't be afraid, I don't sword at home,
Come boldly towards me,
Your horoscope has been ready for a long time.“The Bryansk people are falling, growing at Mantashev.
There is no longer a young man, no longer ours.
Velimir KhlebnikovChristmas holidays were warmed by bonfires.
And carriages fell from the bridges,
And the whole mourning city floated
For an unknown destination
Along the Neva, or against the current, -
Just away from your graves.
In Summer, a weather vane sang subtly
AND silver month brightly
Above silver age cold.And always in frosty silence,
Pre-war, prodigal and formidable,
There was a hidden rumble.
But then he was heard deafly,
He hardly touched the ear
And drowned in the snowdrifts of the NevskyWho wanders under the windows after midnight,
On whom mercilessly directs
Dim beam corner lamp -
He saw how a slender mask
On the way back from Damascus
She did not return home alone.
Already on the stairs smells of perfume,
And a hussar cornet with verses
And with senseless death in my chest
Call if you have the courage
He is for you, he is for his La Traviata,
I came to bow. Look.
Not in the damned Masurian marshes.
Not on the blue Carpathian heights...
He is on your doorstep...
Across..,
May God forgive you!It's me - your old conscience -
Searched for a burnt story
And on the edge of the windowsill
In the house of the deceased
She put it down and left on tiptoe.Afterword
Everything is fine; lies a poem
And, as usual, she is silent.
Well, what if the topic breaks out,
Knock on the window with a fist?
And to this call from afar
Suddenly a terrible sound
Rumble, groan and scream ...
And a vision of crossed arms.Part II
Tails
(Intermezzo)V. G. Garshin
“I drink Leta’s water…
The doctor forbade me to be despondent"
Alexander PushkinMy editor was unhappy
He swore to me that he was busy and sick,
Locked up my phone...
How is it possible! three themes at once!
Reading the last sentence
Don't know who is in love with whom.I gave up at first. But again
The word fell out after the word,
The music box rumbled.
And over that broken vial,
With a straight and green tongue,
A poison unknown to me burned.And in a dream everything seemed to be
I'm writing a libretto for someone
And there is no end to music.
But sleep is also a thing!
«Soft embalmer»3, Blue bird.
Elsinore terraces parapet.And I myself was not happy
This infernal harlequinade
From afar heard howling.
I hoped that by
Will sweep like flakes of smoke
Through the mysterious dusk of needles.Do not fight off the motley junk!
It's the old freak Cagliostro
For my dislike for him.
And the bats fly
And the hunchbacks run on the roof,
And the gypsy licks the blood.Roman carnival midnight
And it does not smell, - the chant of the Cherubim
Behind the high window is trembling.
No one knocks on my door
Only a mirror dreams of a mirror,
Silence guards silence.But there was a topic for me
Like a crushed chrysanthemum
On the floor when the coffin is being carried.
Between remember and remember, others,
Distance as from Luga
To the country of satin bouts.Bes beguiled in laying to rummage ...
Well, it can still happen
That it's all my fault.
I am the quietest, I am simple
- "Plantain", "White Flock" -
Justify? But how, friends!?So you know: accused of plagiarism ...
Am I guilty of others? ..
In fact, this is the last time...
I agree to fail
And I do not hide my embarrassment
Under a secluded gas mask.That centennial charmer
Suddenly woke up and have fun
I wanted to. I have nothing.
The lacy one drops the handkerchief,
Squinting languidly because of the lines
And Bryullov beckons with his shoulder.I drank it in a drop of each
And, demonic black thirst
Obsessed, didn't know how
I have to deal with the demoniac.
I threatened her with a star chamber
And drove to the native attic,Into the darkness, under Manfred's firs,
And to the shore where Shelly is dead
Looking straight at the sky, lay,
And all the larks around the world
Ripped apart the abyss of the ether
And George held the torch,But she insisted stubbornly:
"I'm not that English lady
And not at all Clara Gazul,
I have no pedigree at all
Except sunny and fabulous.
And July himself brought me.And your ambiguous glory
Twenty years lying in a ditch
I will not serve like that yet;
We are still drinking with you
And I'm royal with my kiss
I will reward your evil midnight.1941. January. (3-5th in the afternoon)
Leningrad.
Fountain House.
Rewritten in Tashkent
January 19, 1942 (at night during
light earthquake).Epilogue
City and FriendSo under the roof of the Fountain House,
Where the evening wanders languor
With a lantern and a bunch of keys, -
I came around with a distant echo
Inappropriate disturbing laughter
The impenetrable dream of things, -Where is the witness of everything in the world,
At sunset and at dawn
Looks into the room old maple,
And, foreseeing our parting,
me withered black hand,
How does he reach out for help?
…………..
And the ground was burning under my feet
And such a star looked
Into my yet abandoned house,
And I was waiting for a conditional sound ...
It's somewhere out there - near Tobruk,
It's around here somewhere.
You are my formidable and my last,
Bright listener of dark nonsense:
Hope, forgiveness, honor.
Before me you burn like a flame,
Above me you stand like a banner
And kiss me like flattery.
Put your hand on my head.
Let time stop now
On your watch.
We are not spared by misfortune
And the cuckoo won't crow
In our scorched forests.
And not become my grave
You are granite
Pale, dead, quiet.
Our separation is imaginary
I'm inseparable from you
My shadow on your walls
My reflection in the channels
The sound of footsteps in the Hermitage rooms
And on the echoing arches of bridges,
And on the old Wolf Field,
Where can I cry at will
In the thicket of your new crosses.
I thought you were chasing me
Are you left there to die
In the glare of the spiers in the reflection of the waters.
Did not wait for the desired messengers,
Above you are only your charms
White nochenek round dance.
A cheerful word is at home
Nobody knows now
Everyone is looking into someone else's window
Who is in Tashkent, who is in New York
And exile the air is bitter,
Like poisoned wine.
All of us could admire me,
When in the belly of a flying fish
I was saved from the evil chase
And over Ladoga and over the forest,
Like one possessed by a demon
As the night rushed to Broken.
And behind me a secret sparkling
And called herself - the Seventh
Rushed to an unheard-of feast
Pretending to be a music book
Famous Leningradka
She returned to her native air.
Analysis of Akhmatova's poem "A Poem without a Hero"
The poetess worked on the final work, which earned a reputation as mysterious and mystical, for more than two decades. In a complex and multifaceted main theme - the fate of compatriots and the life of the country in the first half of the 20th century. - all the most important areas of Akhmatov's creativity are included. Chamber relationships of lovers in early lyrics, honest and fearless civil poetry late period Petersburg motifs - all this is present in the text of the poem, everything is subject to reflection and sometimes acquires a new meaning.
"A poem without a hero" is full of puzzles, and the first of them lies in the title. Who became the main character? There is no single answer. Among the discordant choir, the abundance of names and encrypted nameless images, the voice of the lyrical heroine, who is sometimes called the true "mistress" of the poem, stands out. This voice often resembles a fragmentary speech, overflowing with emotions, the stream of consciousness of a medium broadcasting memories in the course of a séance.
More correct is the opinion that puts forward the image of Time or the Epoch for the role of the hero. The multi-layer structure of this image is based not on the usual forward movement, but on the simultaneous coexistence of different time layers. The present holds the shadows of the past and glimpses the future, creating the basis for prophetic visions.
The final piece remains open. The portrait of the "Guest from the Future", who did not appear to the heroine on New Year's Eve, is surrounded by a gloomy halo, but lacks certainty. The story ends with a tragic and suffering image of a Russian woman, tormented by fear and waiting for retribution.
The theme of duality, relevant to Akhmatov's work since the first collections, has reached its climax here. In one of the remarks, the author claims three reflection portraits, but the subsequent text multiplies their number. It seems that "mirror writing" has brought the number of reflections to infinity. Ghosts from the "hellish harlequinade", who visited the heroine on a festive evening, also multiply in the mysterious looking glass.
The form of the poem is also unusual: the author endowed it with elements of a play. Directions not only define the scene, but describe in detail the scenery for each part or chapter. “A poem without a hero” from birth “asked” for the stage, but theatrical performances created on the basis of the work appeared only in early XXI V.
Literature lesson in grade 11
"And the silver month froze brightly over the silver age."
Form of organization of educational activities: group.
Lesson form: project protection.
At the heart of the lesson- project method.
Lesson Objectives: awareness of the poetry of the "silver age" as a spiritual and aesthetic phenomenon of the era of the turn of the century; development of students' skills to work independently with the text, to analyze piece of art, work with critical and memoir literature; development monologue speech students and their creativity.
Lesson layout: a stand with portraits, illustrations, books on the topic of the seminar; presentations prepared by creative teams.
According to the requirements stipulated by this technology, the eleventh-graders, a week before the lesson, were divided into three groups and chose tasks for themselves:
Theme “The Silver Age of Russian Poetry. Literary currents".
Subtopics in the Project Theme
The composition of the creative team
Questions to expand the subtopic
Form of expression of the results of project activities
Symbolism
Aesthetics and poetics of symbolism.
Basic principles of symbolism.
The role of symbols.
Founders.
Messages about symbolist poets;
Prepare a presentation.
Acmeism
How was the birth of acmeism indicated?
What is acmeism? What are its main principles? Founders.
What is the Poets' Workshop?
What is the role of Apollo magazine?
Messages about acmeist poets;
Reading and analysis of the poem;
Write a stylized poem;
Prepare a presentation.
Futurism
What is futurism?
Main groups.
What were the main requirements of the futurists?
The main collections and almanacs of the futurists.
representatives of futurism.
Messages about futurist poets;
Reading and analysis of the poem;
Write a stylized poem;
Prepare a presentation.
This lesson is the final in the work of students, which was carried out over several lessons.
Members creative groups they defend their projects in turn, while the teacher is the link in this chain and ensures the logical harmony of the lesson. He also corrects the work, asking additional questions to the students, if necessary.
During the classes:
1. introduction teachers.
(To the music of S. Rachmaninov)
Christmas time was warmed by bonfires,
And carriages fell from the bridges,
And the whole mourning city floated
For an unknown destination
Along the Neva or against the current, -
Just away from your graves.
On Galernaya arch blackened,
In Summer, a weathervane sang subtly.
And the silver moon is bright
Frozen over the Silver Age.
These are lines from A. Akhmatova's "Poem Without a Hero", where for the first time in literary creativity the expression "silver age" was used. The turn of the century became a true Renaissance, the flowering of Russian spirituality, which gave the world brilliant discoveries in the field of music, painting, architecture, and poetry.
This was the period when it was poetry, with its brightness and power of experience, that became the main mouthpiece of the mood of the era. They were very different, the poets of the Silver Age. They lived complex inner life, tragic and joyful, filled with quests, feelings, poems. "The world split, and the crack went through the poet's heart." G. Heine.
In today's lesson, we will check how much you were able to feel the "spirit of the era", realize this miracle phenomenon of the "Silver Age", systematize and summarize knowledge on the topic studied, get acquainted with your creative works. And I also ask you to think about the question: what explains our increased interest in the poetry of the "Silver Age"? What is this - another tribute to fashion? What is close to us, today, in it? We will return to this question at the end of the lesson.
2. Speech by a student with a question: "Silver Age". What is this age?
3. Teacher:
We have already said that Russian modernism was represented by different currents. Now let's talk about these currents. The word is given to the symbolists.
4. Speech by a group of symbolists according to plan.
Messages about symbolist poets;
Prepare a presentation.
Poem-stylization.
We can love while hating
And we can love, loving.
We find happiness in the abode,
With separation, trouble comes to us.
What do I see in your eyes?
Bitterness, resentment and just longing ...
Or maybe the other way around?
you are happy swimming
In this nonsense!
What is the temple of love to us? – unknown.
What is love to us? - emptiness.
What is happiness for us?
To be honest, I can't find the answer myself.
Yes. Our world is beautiful
But it's too hard
Find that piece of beauty
That the eye would caress not falsely,
And sincerely, and for the soul!
(Gurina E., Savvateeva E.)
5. Teacher:
The crisis of symbolism in the 1910s and 1911s gave rise to a new poetic school, proceeding from the fact that the beyond - the ideal of the Symbolists - cannot be comprehended, no matter how original attempts to do so.
So, a new direction with refined severity and elegant simplicity is being established on the literary scene - acmeism.
A word to the acmeists.
6. Speech by a group of acmeists according to plan.
Messages about acmeist poets;
Reading and analysis of the poem;
Write a stylized poem;
Prepare a presentation.
7. Teacher:
The origins of acmeism are the poetry of pastel halftones, a leisurely legato, behind which, however, is a tense life full of dramatic contradictions.
Another opponent of the Magicians and Priests of Symbolism - far less respectful - were the Futurists. Word to them.
8. Performance of the futurists according to plan.
Messages about futurist poets;
Reading and analysis of the poem;
Write a stylized poem;
Prepare a presentation.
Poem-stylization
Boltology.
(imitation of futurism)
What is the science of boltology?
Much has already been said about her.
Hey, chatter-arms and chatter-legs,
This is the new science of bolts and bolts!
Hey you, nibbles and half-eaters,
Talkers and talkers!
Are you tired of chatting chatter yet?
Isn't it enough to flounder in chatter?
Who needs talkers talkers,
Whose tongue dangles like an unscrewed bolt?
I tell you for the ninety-ninth, for the hundredth time,
Enough, enough foolishness toil!
Stop running the talkers
So all ears are covered with chatter.
They would have more bolt commanders
And more voters, of course.
But unscrewed bolts are waiting for us,
Nuts not threaded,
Let the talkers number in the thousands,
We will soon be numbered in the millions!
If each by a bolt - a screw
Will screw in a common cause, with joy
Let's conduct a new bolt policy,
And let's put the old one on the bolts as unnecessary.
(Kovin Denis)
9. Teacher:
As you can see, Russian poetry of the "Silver Age" has come a long way in a very short time. She threw her seeds into the future.
The poetry of the "Silver Age" reflected in itself, in its large and small magic mirrors, the complex and ambiguous process of the socio-political, spiritual, moral, aesthetic and cultural development of Russia in a period marked by three revolutions, a world war and an especially terrible for us internal war. . Civil. In this process, captured by poetry, there are ups and downs, light and dark, dramatic and comic sides, but in its depths it is a tragic process. And although time pushed aside this amazing layer of poetry of the "silver age", but it radiates its poetry to this day. The Russian "Silver Age" is unique. Never - neither before nor after - has there been in Russia such agitation of consciousness, such tension of quests and aspirations, as when, according to an eyewitness, one line of Blok meant more and was more urgent than the entire content of Tolstoy's journals. The light of these unforgettable dawns will forever remain in the history of Russia.
And now I would like to return to the question that was raised at the beginning of the lesson: how is the poetry of the “Silver Age” close to us?
Possible answer: it seems to me that we are going through the same time of crisis as the poets of the turn of the century. The collapse of old ideals, the intense search for new ones, the dream of a new future of goodness and light... They were painfully looking for a way out of the impasse... Are we not now at the same crossroads?
10. Teacher:
I think that O. Mandelstam was right when he said about the poets of the "Silver Age": "After all, these are all Russian poets, not for yesterday, not for today, but for always." So let this amazing miracle of Russian poetry remain with us forever -
The embodiment of dreams
Life with a dream is a game
This world of charms
This world of silver!
V. Bryusov.
Homework: Write an essay on the topic: "Reading the poetry of the" Silver Age ..."
"And the silver month is bright above the silver age
cold"
There are 3 groups on stage:
symbolists in black suits
acmeists - strict clothes
futurists - loose shirts, disheveled.
Stage back:
Poster “The Silver Age of Russian Poetry”
Enlarged covers of books by M. Tsvetaeva, A. Akhmatova, O. Mandelstam, V. Bryusov and others.
Rachmaninov's music sounds
Lead 1.
Christmas time was warmed by bonfires,
And carriages fell from the bridges,
And the whole mourning city floated
For an unknown destination
Along the Neva or against the current -
Just away from your graves.
Along the Galernaya arch blackened,
In Summer, the weather vane sang subtly,
And the silver moon is bright
Frozen over the Silver Age.
Presenter 2. Silver age! What is it? What are its limits? Talk more about the beginning of the Silver Age
or less easily. IN scientific papers the beginning is usually taken as the mid-1890s (Merezhkovsky and early
Bryusov). And the second frontier should be pushed back towards the end of the twentieth century. You can associate it with a shot,
who ended the life of N. Gumilyov in 1921. The Silver Age is, of course, not a century in the direct sense
this word, but a period of several decades, when a group of poets appeared who managed to declare themselves new,
extraordinary creativity.
Presenter 1. They were very different, the poets of the Silver Age. They lived complex inner lives,
tragic and joyful, filled with quests, feelings, poems.
The groups are displayed on the stage so that the names on the tables are visible (“symbolists”, “acmeists”,
"futurists").
Symbolist. I believe, gentlemen, that poetry is the way to the highest knowledge of the World. And knowledge can only be
through a symbol. Did you read latest work Merezhkovsky “On the Causes of the Decline and New Trends in Russian
literature"?
Acmeist. And here’s what I’ll say, dear symbolists, if we talk about new trends, then first of all it’s
we must talk about acmeism. Well, why do you need these symbols, mysticism, the other world, when there are so many
wonderful, down to earth. The beyond cannot be comprehended, no matter how original your attempts may be.
Symbolist. But how musical our poems are. Here, listen to the lines of K. Balmont. Sounds are the music itself
(“Reeds”).
Midnight sometimes in the swamp wilderness
Slightly audible, noiselessly rustling reeds.
What are they whispering about? What are they talking about?
Why are the lights between them burning
Flashing, blinking - and again they are gone.
And again the wandering light dawned.
Isn't it lovely?!
Acmeist. I have nothing personally against K. Balmont, but you must admit - sheer pessimism. And in general we
Association "Workshop of Poets" abandoned the idea of knowing the unknowable. I agree with N. Gumilyov, S.
Gorodetsky that the simple, material, objective world is significant in itself. And quite in vain accuses us A.
The block is that our creativity is "without a deity, without inspiration." Yes, you just listen (sounds
poem by N. Gumilyov “Giraffe”).
Futurist. I listened to you, gentlemen poets, I listened and I will say frankly: I'm tired! Merezhkovsky, Gumilyov, Pushkin - there,
Lermontov all must be forgotten, thrown out of my head. Our poetry is the beginning of all new paths. We dream about
unheard of unseen model of art. This will renew the decrepit world. We blow up the language
disharmony in poetry! Listen to one of the last poems by Velimir Khlebnikov.
V. Khlebnikov's poem “Oh, laugh, laughers!”
Symbolist. And you still talk about our incomprehensible poetry. Everything is clear with us, but here !!! What's the point?
Futurist. So you, the Symbolists, are in complete sadness: oh, yes, oh! And here they offer to laugh. Didn't like
our V. Khlebnikov, well! But I. Severyanin will conquer you.
The poem “Overture” by I. Severyanin sounds.
Presenter 1. Why are you all arguing?! And I know what unites you all. These are love poems. And at
symbolists, this topic was generally leading.
Symbolist. Unearthly divine love. The search for eternal femininity is what, for example, A. Blok wrote about.
A. Blok's poem about love is read from the audience (at the reader's choice).
Acmeist. And our Anna Akhmatova writes about earthly love. Writes correctly.
A. Akhmatova's poem about love is read from the audience (at the reader's choice).
Futurist. And our V. Mayakovsky gave it out.
From the hall sounds the poem “Naval Love”
Acmeist. It's easy to write about love. At least everyone is allowed. And our
O. Mandelstam wrote poems about things that could not be whispered about. Of course he was punished. When he was arrested
wife and A. Akhmatova, who was friends with the family, immediately decided what kind of poems about Stalin they were.
A poem by O. Mandelstam “We live under ourselves, not smelling the country” sounds from the hall.
A poem by M. Tsvetaeva “To my poems written so early” sounds from the hall
(1913).
Presenter 1. Excuse me, gentlemen, poets, something I can’t remember, whose verses have now sounded? But it's already clear
not O. Mandelstam.
Presenter 2. They don't know, I think.
Acmeist. Why do we not know Marina Tsvetaeva. She is not like everyone else. We just can't get her involved either.
in one of our group, but this did not make her poems worse. Listen.
Poems by M. Tsvetaeva sound from the hall:
“I like that you are not sick of me…”
"Mom"
“Yesterday I looked into your eyes”
Lead 2. I give up. And you know M. Tsvetaeva, and you know her poems! I am very happy! And the poetry of the silver age
love.
Presenter 1. In general, if we talk about poetry, we can remember that there is an unusual phenomenon in it. Here,
for example, an acrostic. The poets of the Silver Age were not fond of anything! The acrostic was also characteristic of them.
Although the phenomenon in the literature is not new. Derzhavin was a master of such amusements. Here he has (demonstrated
poster with Derzhavin's lines)
I will sing you as I sang
Good Father! What to call, I do not know
Hustle the souls to ring as it rang,
Starting with alpha, I go dumb with omega.
(G.F. Derzhavin)
Many poets wrote acrostics in the 17th century. But it was more considered table-album fun. But in XX
century a new understanding of the acrostic.
Symbolist time is a time of premonitions, active rethinking of all forms, understanding of poetry as
some kind of cipher. It seems important to run someone's name on the edge of the line? But that's the point,
the easier it is to read the name along the edge, the more difficult it is to get to the bottom of the meaning of the text itself. Nikolai Gumilyov stubbornly
inscribed the name in the vertical
A. Akhmatova. B. Pasternak has the name of Marina Tsvetaeva in two acrostics. Innokenty, Annensky, Igor
Severyanin, Sergei Yesenin, Sergei Gorodetsky and many others wrote acrostics.
Presenter 2. I would like to talk separately about the sonnet. Let me remind you that a sonnet is a poem of 14 lines,
having a canonical system of rhyming and strict stylistic laws. Among various kinds
There are two main sonnets - Italian and English.
Italian consists of two quatrains (quatrains) and two tercetes (tercetes).
The English sonnet consists of three quatrains and a final couplet. Other options include
note French, which differs from Italian in a special rhyme in tercetes. That's just what he has
important for the history of the Russian sonnet.
Traditional style requirements for a sonnet: sublime vocabulary and intonation, precise and rare rhymes,
a ban on hyphenation and repetition of a significant word in the same meaning. All these restrictions
conditioned artistic purpose sonnet as an intellectual genre of lyrics.
The wreath of sonnets is a chain of 15 sonnets, where 14 poems form a ring, since
the last line of each sonnet is repeated in the first line of the next, with the last line
The fourteenth verse repeats the first line of the first. The fifteenth sonnet, called the madrigal,
consists of the first lines of all fourteen others, in the order in which they follow each other.
The wreath of sonnets was also born in Italy, and in modern form evolved to late XVII century. At the beginning of the 20th century
accounts for the "golden age" of the Russian sonnet. In the work of V.Ya. Bryusova, V.I. Ivanova, I.F. Annensky, M.A.
Voloshin, O.E. Mandelstam, I. Severyanin, the sonnet acquired diversity and freedom. Sonnets appear
acrostics, “headless” sonnets (with one quatrain), “tailed” (with an extra tercet), “lame” (written
strings of unequal length).
The art of the sonnet reaches special strength in the work of I.A. Bunin, where this genre is marked by the clarity of language,
perfection of syntax, impeccable clarity of thought and transparency of intonation.
I. Bunin's sonnet “In his poems, a cheerful drop” sounds from the hall.
Symbolist. But V. Bryusov's sonnet was written in front of an astonished audience in the Tenth Muse cafe in May
1918.
The poem “Remember death” by V. Bryusov sounds from the hall.
Acmeist. Well, let's say with light hand V. Bryusov, a lover of sonnets, he, the sonnet, becomes the property and
acmeists. N. Gumilyov and representatives of the Poets' Guild preferred strict traditional forms.
The only exception was the willful A. Akhmatova. Of the 16 sonnets, two-three corresponded to the accepted
norms. Here is a sonnet
N. Gumilyov, a lover of travel to distant unusual countries. Hence the exotic moods in his
poetry, including sonnets. Get acquainted with one of N. Gumilyov's sonnets.
N. Gumilyov's sonnet “There were five of us ... We were captains” sounds from the hall.
Futurist. And we're all rebuilding the language. The number of correct sonnets generally changed dramatically. recognize
the classic sonnet among the futurists was often difficult. But at
I. Severyanin is interested in the fact that he dedicated his sonnets to figures of culture and art. He has such sonnets
there were more than 100. Some characteristics of the figures are remarkably insightful and objective.
The end of the nineteenth century... The beginning of the twentieth... The turn of the century... The feeling of crisis, upheaval, catastrophe... The twentieth century... even more homeless, Even more terrible than life's darkness, Even blacker and more enormous Shadow of Lucifer's wing. And disgust from life, And insane love for it, And passion, and hatred for the homeland... And black earthly blood Promises us, inflating veins, Destroying all frontiers, Unheard-of changes, Unseen revolts... A.A.Blok
Silver Age () ? Otsup N.A. By strength and energy, by the abundance of amazing creations, the poetry of this period is a worthy continuation of the "golden age" Russian cultural Renaissance Berdyaev N.A.
Modernism (fr. Moderne - the latest, modern) is an artistic and aesthetic system that developed at the beginning of the 20th century, embodied in a system of relatively independent artistic directions and trends characterized by a sense of disharmony of the world, a break with the traditions of realism, a rebellious and shocking worldview, the predominance of motives for losing touch with reality, loneliness and illusory freedom of the artist, closed in the space of his fantasies, memories and subjective associations.
Symbolism (D. Merezhkovsky) The symbol is the main aesthetic category Themes of the works: denial of reality (the world is a menagerie, a prison, a cell); life is a dream, a play of shadows; self-deification; throwing a person from darkness to light (swing motif); loneliness; Eternal Femininity, Soul of the World
A pale young man with burning eyes, Now I give you three testaments. Accept the first: do not live in the present, Only the future is the domain of the poet. Remember the second: do not sympathize with anyone, Love yourself infinitely. Keep the third: worship art, Only him, thoughtlessly, aimlessly. V. Bryusov
Futurism (Future) Manifesto "Slapping Public Taste": "We deny spelling"; "We loosened the syntax"; "We have destroyed punctuation marks" "We are the new people of a new life" Collections: "Roaring Parnassus", "Dead Moon", "Milkers of Exhausted Toads" Groups: "Jack of Diamonds", "Donkey's Tail", "Budetlyane"
I know the merry lines of mysterious countries About the black maiden, about the passion of the young leader, But you have inhaled the heavy fog for too long, You don't want to believe in anything but rain. And how can I tell you about a tropical garden, About slender palm trees, about the smell of unimaginable herbs. You are crying? Listen ... far away, on Lake Chad An exquisite giraffe roams N. Gumilyov Comparative table of modernist trends at the turn of the century Criteria for comparison SymbolismAcmeismFuturism 1. Attitude to the world The world is not cognizable The world is cognizable clarity, simplicity The poet destroys the old 3. Attitude to the word The word is polysemantic And symbolic The clear definition of the word Freedom in dealing with the word 4. Features of the form Allusions, allegories Concrete figurativeness The abundance of neologisms, distortions of words 5. A close kind of art Music Painting, architecture, sculpture Painting
slide1(Music is quiet)
The beginning of the 20th century gave such an amount talented poets that their number could be compared to a scattering of hundreds of stars on the black velvet of the night sky, and every second one can be called the Mozart of verse.
The poets of the Silver Age are a whole constellation in the Russian national galaxy: Dmitry Merezhkovsky and his wife Zinaida Gippius - Anna Akhmatova and Nikolai Gumilyov, Valery Bryusov, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Sergei Gorodetsky, young Boris Pasternak and Marina Tsvetaeva, Osip Mandelstam and Sergei Yesenin, Andrei Bely and Alexander Blok, Konstantin Balmont - this Paganini of verse and Igor Severyanin - officially recognized as the king of poets. The list of glorious names could be continued.
slide 2 Poets form a multitude literary trends- symbolism, acmeism, futurism, imagism. Some of them in creative development changed their attitude to the world, social phenomena and ideas about their purpose. Their divine poetic gift remained unchanged, thanks to which they brought the verse in the poetic sense to perfection: the sound, all the colors of the world and all the subtlest shades of feelings acquired hitherto unheard-of musicality.
If the poetry of the Silver Age is presented as a multi-volume book, then today we open only its first page - the preface.
Slide 3 Silver age ... Creative inspiration, flaring up with a bright flame, did not go out in 1917, but went deep, disappeared in the ashes from the hurricane of history. An interrupted soul, a suppressed word, an unfinished song... In the new 21st century, the poets of the Silver Age are with us again.
slide 4- Saint Petersburg. Foundry, 24 - Muruzi's house. Zinaida Gippius and Dmitry Merezhkovsky lived in this house for many years. The Merezhkovsky salon was one of the most famous literary collections in St. Petersburg of the Silver Age.
Slide 5 - The "House of Muruzi" played the same role that Vyach's "Tower" later played. Iv. Ivanova.
Slide 6 - In Muruzi's house, the Merezhkovskys were visited not only by writers and poets, but also by artists, philosophers, everyone who was not indifferent to culture.
Slide 7- The famous tower of Vyacheslav Ivanov. This house will become one of the centers where the poets of St. Petersburg will gather. They will argue for days about life and the appointment of the poet. The poet, who, according to their ideas, played a big role in the universe.
Slide 7 - Popova I. It was in the tower of V. Ivanov. They read poetry. Poetry then made people more drunk than wine. The tower overlooked the roof of the neighboring house, and one could see the pale gray night sky, without moon and stars, as it is on the white nights of St. poignant in poetic beauty "The Stranger". All the blood in me stopped when, after the famous line “spirits and mists she sits at the window”, this enveloping A was replaced by a magical E.
and breathe ancient beliefs
HER MAGIC SILKS…
(All enter) Slide-9 Zholnerovich A. More than 100 years ago, on the eve of the new year 1912 in St. Petersburg, an artistic cafe, an art cabaret "Stray Dog", was opened in the basement of the 2nd Dashkovs' house. The fame of the cafe is surprisingly scandalous, legendary came from a combination of modesty of the premises and the highest concentration of brilliant talents: Anna Akhmatova, Nikolai Gumilyov, Osip Mandelstam, Vladimir Mayakovsky - the list is inexhaustible .
All together
Basement in the second yard
It has a dog shelter.
Everyone who got here -
Just a stray dog.
But that is pride, but that is honor,
To get into that basement! Woof! - 2 times -
(tables, chairs are placed on the stage, tablecloths are covered) everyone dances to the music
Slide 10 Video Cafe "Stray Dog" sounds the song of A. Vertinsky "Magnolia". Popova I. The abandoned cellar, which once served as a wine cellar, has been remarkably transformed. The walls were decorated with manuscripts, the architect Fomin built a huge fireplace with his own hands. A knocker and a board were hung at the outer doors, on which everyone entering had to knock.
Michael: "Stray dog" - a living monument of the culture of the Silver Age.
Andrey:"Golden Age" - the sunny age of poets of the 19th century.
Inga: Silver - moon blues, a stormy heyday and an anticipation of the imminent collapse of the poets of the 20th century.
M.: moon, by ancient mythology, a symbol of damage and inequality.
A.: True poetry is love, courage and sacrifice. - Frederico Garcia Lorca
AND.: Today we are back at Stray Dog
Many of them lacked the modest dignity of the classic poets of the 19th century. Their desire for self-affirmation, exaltation and self-praise cannot but cause a smile.
Slide-11 Scene #1- at the table
AND.: - Oh, gentlemen, how you want refined, sublime, refined. I would like to revel in the music of poetic lines!
M.: Excuse me, ma'am! Lilac ice cream! Lilac ice cream!
Anatoly: Pineapples in champagne! / 2 times /
A.: Champagne on the menu! / 2 times /
M.: I drank the dreams of violets violet violet ...
N.: Oh my God! Whose lines are these? Who is author?
A.: How, you do not know? This is the king of poets - I. Severyanin!
N.: Northerner?
AND.: Northerner?
- Se-ve-rya-nin ...
Champagne power in the poet seethed,
At meetings with him, the audience poured out,
And with the eyes of the maiden they caressed the poet,
And the lamps burst from applause.
February 27, 1918 in the hall Polytechnic Museum They listened to the northerner in complete silence, subdued by the energy of the rhythms and the melody of the stanzas.
A.: When the poet finished reading, the audience burst into applause and cries of delight. After the votes were counted, it was announced: The King of Poets - I. Severyanin, 2nd place - V. Mayakovsky, 3rd place - K. Balmont
Slide-12 (the knock of a hammer, enters) Severyanin: Tatarchuk A.
From now on, my cloak is purple,
Beretta velvet in silver.
I have been chosen as the king of poets
To the envy of a boring midge.
Only to me admiration and worship
And glory spicy incense
My love and song -
To inaccessible verses
I'm so big and so sure
So convinced of myself
That I will forgive everyone and every faith
I will give you my respectful regards.
In the soul impulsive greetings
Uncountable number.
I have been chosen as the king of poets
Let it be light for the subjects
(Northerner sits in a chair)
Scene #2(Ladies and gentlemen at tables)
AND.: Why did the crowd praise the poet? What did she want to hear?
N.: Ah, ma'am, they demanded of him "to popularize delights", no one was interested in his "universal soul". He entered and saw the guests drinking wine, reclining on velvet, inhaling lilies. And the poet put on a mask, disappeared behind the shield of irony and self-irony .
Participants bring masks to their faces.
Severyanin Tatarchuk A.
In tuxedos, in chic, high-society rumors
In the prince's living room, they lined up, having served their faces:
I smiled tautly, remembering sacramentally about gunpowder.
Boredom was blown up by an unexpectedly non-poetic motif.
Every line is a slap. My voice is a mockery.
Rhymes are formed into cookies. The language seems to be assonance.
I despise you ardently, your dull excellencies,
And despising, counting on the global resonance.
Dim Your Excellencies! At the time of the Northerner
You should know that both Blok and Balmont were behind Pushkin.
A.: The most intimate, sincere, naked splashed out openly, could not resist! He finally slapped his listeners in the face, and those in the heat of enthusiasm did not even notice that they were being openly mocked!
AND.: With what skill it is written! Just think about it, listen to this brilliant pun: "I despise you, Your Excellencies!" The tragedy of Severyanin consisted in the fact that this almost obscenely mocking confession was not noticed at that time, they thought: he was joking, teasing on purpose. The beloved was forgiven.
All in unison
Take off your mask, poet!
Take off your mask, king!
(participants take off their masks)
Slide-13 Zholnerovich A. - I. Severyanin "Their way of life":
What do these people live
What's on a pair of legs pass?
Drink and eat, eat and drink
And in this life they find meaning ...
Inflate, cash in, rob,
To corrupt, humiliate, hurt...
What other passion do they have?
After all, that's enough for them!
And these, on a pair of legs,
The so-called people
"live for themselves" ... and the name Blok
For them, mired in vile fornication
Senseless, absurd syllable.
Severyanin - Zholnerovich A.-
Do not envy a friend if he is richer
If he is more beautiful, if he is smarter.
May his prosperity, may his good luck
Your sandals won't have the straps worn off.
Move smarter on your way
Smile wider from his luck.
Maybe bliss is on your doorstep
And he, perhaps, is waiting for need and crying
Weep his tears! Laugh out loud!
Feel with all my heart along and across
Do not hinder a friend, rejoice in success:
This is a crime! This is an overkill!
Slide-14 M.: It is also indisputable that the star of the first magnitude in the constellation of poets of the Silver Age was Alexander Blok. Admiration for him and his work was universal, according to the memoirs of K. Chukovsky, magnetism did not come from anyone so clearly, so tangibly.
Inga. Words and lines line up in a row and, as it were, are carried away musical wave. In soundless silence, images arise in which bitterness and delight, hopeless longing and joyful amazement at the miracle of beauty merged.
It is hard to imagine a woman who would not fall in love with him. He read his poems in a sad, offended and even slightly contemptuous voice.
A.: Love bloomed in the mouth
And in the early sadness of tears,
And I was in pink chains
Women have many times.
He was addressed with poems by Z. Gippius, A. Akhmatova, M. Tsvetaeva.
Slide-15 M. Tsvetaeva: Popova I.
Your name- bird in hand
Your name is ice on the tongue
One - the only movement of the lips,
Your name is 5 letters.
Ball caught on the fly
Silver bell in the mouth.
Your name - oh, you can't! -
Your name is kisses in the eyes
In the tender string of motionless eyelids,
Your name is a kiss in the snow.
Key, icy, blue sip…
With your name - sleep is deep
It appeared to us - the whole wide area
holy name Alexander Blok.
Slide-16(Video Night, street, pharmacy)
Slide-17 M.: The flaming and bitter mountain ash became a symbol of Tsvetaeva's fate, also "bitter, blazing with creativity and constantly threatening the winter of oblivion."
Tsvetaeva's poetry is called "the poetry of her soul!" In May 1913, in the Crimea, in Koktebel, Marina created the now widely known untitled poem, which became a kind of prediction.
Medvedeva N. reads a poem M. Tsvetaeva
To my poems written so early
That I did not know that I am a poet,
Ripped off like spray from a fountain
Like sparks from rockets
Bursting like little devils
In the sanctuary where sleep and incense
To my poems about youth and death,
Unread verses! -
Scattered in the dust at the shops
(Where no one took them and does not take them!),
My poems are like precious wines
Your turn will come.
A. The poems of Marina Tsvetaeva are melodic, sincere and charming, composers constantly turn to them, and then they turn into romances of amazing beauty.
Slide-18 video - "Under the caress of a plush blanket" from the film Cruel Romance
M.: Tsvetaeva is a poet of "the ultimate truth of feelings."
Her poems are surprisingly modern because they preached Eternal values.
Slide 19 "I like that you are not sick of me ..."
Slide-20 Tsvetaeva: Inga
Yesterday I looked into your eyes
And now - everything is squinting to the side!
Yesterday, before the birds sat, -
All larks today are crows!
I'm stupid and you're smart
Alive and I'm dumbfounded.
O cry of women of all times:
"My dear, what have I done to you?!"
And her tears are water, and blood -
Water, - in blood, in tears washed!
Not a mother, but a stepmother - Love:
Don't expect judgment or mercy.
They take away cute ships,
The white road leads them away ...
And a groan stands along the whole earth:
Yesterday I was still at my feet!
Equated with the Chinese power!
Immediately opened both hands, -
Life fell out - a rusty penny!
Child killer on trial
I stand - unloving, timid.
I'll tell you in hell
"My dear, what have I done to you?"
I'll ask for a chair, I'll ask for a bed:
"For what, for what do I endure and suffer?"
"Kissed - to wheel:
Kiss the other," they answer.
I taught to live in the fire itself,
I threw it myself - into the icy steppe!
That's what you, dear, did to me!
My dear, what have I done to you?
I know everything - do not argue!
Again sighted - no longer a lover!
Where love retreats
There comes Death the gardener.
Itself - what a tree to shake! -
In time, the ripe apple falls ...
For everything, for everything, forgive me
My dear, what have I done to you
Sounds like improvisation of the song "Besame mucho" couples dancing to the music
M. Presenter: And at this time, millions of fortunes arise, as if out of thin air, banks, music halls, magnificent restaurants are being built, where people deafen themselves with music, the reflection of mirrors, light, champagne, half-naked women.
Slide-21-A.: Russian Sappho - A. Akhmatova.
She was subject to all the secrets and mysteries of poetry. Her entry into literature was like a triumphal procession.
M.: The divine uniqueness of the personality ... was emphasized by its stunning beauty. Just looking at her took her breath away. Tall, dark-haired, swarthy, slender and incredibly flexible, with the bottomless green eyes of a snow leopard, she has been painted, painted, sculpted in plaster and marble for half a century, photographed by many, starting with Amadeo Modigliani.
Medvedeva N. (A. Akhmatova) gets up from her chair and reads a poem:
Song last meeting
So helplessly my chest went cold,
But my steps were light.
I put on my right hand
Left hand glove.
It seemed that many steps
And I knew there were only three of them!
Autumn whisper between the maples
He asked: "Die with me!"
I'm deceived by my despondent,
Changeable "evil fate".
I said, "Darling, dear!
And me too. I'll die with you..."
This is the song of the last meeting.
I looked at the dark house.
Candles burned in the bedroom
Indifferent yellow fire.
After reading the poem to the music, Gumilev approaches Akhmatova, sitting next to him on a chair.(Abdullaev A.)
Slide-22 A.: Strong personality, Nikolai Gumilyov, constantly tried to find a place not only in poetry, but also in life, either going on trips to Africa, or going to the front during the First World War, or challenging the authorities ... Tireless, passionate, wise and young in his naivety, thoughtful, lonely warrior.
Slide-23 Video clip Giraffe
N. (Medvedeva) Akhmatova, sitting in an armchair, leaning forward, reads a poem
« Love"
That snake, curled up in a ball,
At the very heart conjures
That whole days like a dove
Cooing on the white window.
It will shine in a bright hoarfrost,
Feels like a left-handed person in a slumber.
But faithfully and secretly leads
From joy and peace.
Can cry so sweetly
In the prayer of a longing violin,
And it's scary to guess
In an unfamiliar smile.
Gumilyov goes to foreground and reads a poem, referring to Akhmatova.
Slide-24 - I and you - Abdullaev A.
Yes, I know I'm not your match
I came from another country
And I don't like the guitar
And the savage melody of the zurna.
Not in the halls and salons
Dark dresses and jackets -
I read poetry to dragons
Waterfalls and clouds.
I love - like an Arab in the desert
Gets down to the water and drinks
Not the knight in the picture
That looks at the stars and waits.
And I won't die in bed
With a notary and a doctor,
And in some wild crack,
Drowned in thick ivy,
To enter not in everything open,
Protestant, tidy paradise
And where the robber, publican
And the harlot will shout: “Get up!”
Poem. Akhmatova "You are an apostate" cheat. Mytnik P. 2AE
Akhmatova-Medvedeva N.
I learned to live simply, wisely,
Look up to the sky and pray to God
And wander long before evening,
To relieve unnecessary anxiety.
When burdocks rustle in the ravine
And a bunch of yellow-red rowan droops,
I compose funny poems
About life perishable and beautiful.
I'm coming back. Licks my hand
Fluffy cat, purring sweeter,
And a bright fire lights up
On the tower of the lake sawmill.
Only occasionally cuts through the silence
The cry of a stork flying onto the roof.
And if you knock on my door,
I don't think I can even hear.
Poem. Akhmatova "Garden" reads Bludenov B. 2ME
Slide-25 Severyanin: Zholnerovich A. (While reading poetry, Mayakovsky V. (Dylyuk Yu.) goes to the middle of the stage, turns to those sitting at the tables)
My friend, Great Mayakovsky,
In former years, a mischievous
Fucking loved to tease the crowd,
Showing her tongue.
Walked in a wide yellow jacket,
He put on a cherry tailcoat,
It seemed to call: "Okatastrofite,
Philistines, your dank darkness!
In bulky lines, -
Now half a sazhen, then a vershok, -
He generously invested reproaches
To the one who called the verses "rhyme"
His rolling, tribunal,
Crowd downcast bass
Thundered throughout the homeland greasy,
Where is the priest, the gendarme and the swineherd.
Mayakovsky: Dylyuk Yu.
your thought,
Dreaming on a softened brain
Like a fat footman on a greasy couch,
I will tease about the bloodied heart flap.
I scoff to my fill, impudent and caustic.
I don't have one in my soul gray hair,
And there is no senile tenderness in it.
The world is overwhelmed by the power of the voice,
I'm going - beautiful
Twenty-two years old.
Gentle!
You don't lay love on the violin,
Love on the timpani lays rough
You can't twist yourself like me,
To have one solid lips?
If you want - I will be mad from meat
And like the sky changing colors -
If you want, I will be impeccably gentle,
Not a man, but a cloud in his pants!
Slide-26 Scene #3 Dialogues (seated at the tables shout out lines)
Mayakovsky: You are there, in the third row, do not brandish your gold tooth so menacingly. Sit down!
(To the man with the newspaper) And you put down your newspaper right now or leave the room: this is not a reading room. Here they listen to me, not read.
Mayakovsky! Do you think we are all idiots?
Mayakovsky: What are you? Why all? As long as I see only one in front of me ...
- How much money will you get for tonight?
Mayakovsky: What do you care? You won't get a dime anyway. I'm not going to share with anyone ... Well - with, then ...
- As yours real name?
Mayakovsky: Say? Pushkin!
- Your poems are too topical. They will die tomorrow. You yourself will be forgotten. Immortality is not your lot.
Mayakovsky: And you come back in 100 years, we'll talk there!
- Your poems are incomprehensible to me.
Mayakovsky: Nothing, your children will understand them!
- No, and my children will not understand!
Mayakovsky: And why are you so convinced that your children will follow you? Maybe their mom is smarter, and they will look like her.
- Why do you praise yourself so much?
Mayakovsky: My classmate at the gymnasium Shakespeare always advised: Speak only good things about yourself, your friends will say bad things about you.
- My friend and I read your poems and did not understand anything!
Mayakovsky: You must have smart comrades.
- Your poems do not excite, do not warm, do not charge.
Mayakovsky: My poems are not the sea, not the stove and not the plague.
Why are you wearing a ring on your finger? It doesn't suit you.
Mayakovsky: That's because it doesn't suit my face, and I wear it on my finger, not in my nose!
A. Host: Everyone knew Mayakovsky - a rebel, a rude man, but this is an illusion. First of all, it was an infinitely lonely, suffering person. The only thing he needs in life is the love of a woman - reckless, deep, all-consuming and most importantly - mutual.
V. Mayakovskyreads a poem"Listen!"
Listen!
After all, if the stars are lit -
So - someone wants them to be?
So - someone calls these spittles
pearl?
And, tearing up
in blizzards of midday dust,
rushes to god
afraid of being late
crying
kisses his sinewy hand,
asks -
to have a star! -
swears -
will not endure this starless torment!
And then
walks anxious,
but calm on the outside.
Says to someone:
“After all, now you have nothing?
Not scary?
Yes?!"
Listen!
After all, if the stars
ignite -
Does that mean anyone needs it?
So, it is necessary
so that every evening
over the rooftops
lit up at least one star ?!
M.: 2 poles of love - worship and cruelty, naivety and swagger. Mask. 2 poles - poetry and love, which merged into one broken line - life. Art was called tragedy, tragedy was called The Great Mayakovsky. Contemporaries treated Mayakovsky difficult. Someone was annoyed by his futuristic delights, and someone envied his fame. But many appreciated it insanely - gentle and original poetic language.
Slide 27 - Inga. (Poem. I. Severyanina):
He ran into life as a Ryazan simpleton
Blue-eyed, curly, fair-haired,
With a perky nose and a cheerful taste,
To the delights of life the sun attracts
But soon the riot threw its dirty ball
In the glow of the eyes. Poisoned by the bite
Serpent of rebellion, slandered Jesus.
I tried to make friends with the tavern
In the circle of robbers and prostitutes,
Languishing from blasphemous jokes,
He realized that the tavern was bad for him ...
And again opened to God, repenting, canopy
Furious soul
Pious Russian hooligan.
Slide-28 Sarogin M. - Yesenin - reads the poem "Weaved out on the lake ..."
Dylyuk Y.-Mayakovsky: Why do you hang around salons, Yesenin?
M.: You look, I'll like it and they will bring it out to people.
A.: Yesenin! Your poems are clean, fresh, vociferous, have not experienced such pleasure for a long time
Slide-29 video for S. Yesenin's song "I have one fun left .." (quietly, amplify towards the end of the host's words) A: The tragedy of Yesenin is that he, who felt his poetic talent, could not help but see how the everyday crushed living soul his divine gift. Open to himself, he opened himself to other people, but often this openness turned into cruel blows and non-healing wounds of the soul for the poet himself.
M. - Poetry is strong with individuality. There was symbolism, but Blok, Bryusov, Bely remained from it. Futurism is gone, but Mayakovsky remains. There was Imagism, but Yesenin remained. There was acmeism, but Akhmatova and Gumilyov remained. Everything is clearer simple truth that without individuality the flow of poetry is clearly not complete.
Vasinsky V. (N. Gumilyov "The Sixth Sense").
Lovely wine in us
And good bread
that sits in the oven for us,
And a woman to whom it is given.
exhausted at first,
us to enjoy.
But what shall we do with the pink dawn
Above the cold skies
Where is silence and unearthly peace,
What should we do
with immortal lyrics. .
Not to eat, not to drink, not to kiss -
The moment flies unstoppable
And we break our hands, but again
Doomed to go all by, by.
Like a boy, forgetting his games.
Watches sometimes for girl's bathing
And knowing nothing about love,
Still tormented by a mysterious desire ..
Our spirit screams, the flesh languishes,
Giving birth to an organ for the sixth sense.
A. They so dreamed of making their readers the heroes of a “strong, cheerful and evil planet”
I l I love the chosen one of freedom,
Navigator and shooter,
Ah, the waters sang so loudly to him
And the clouds were jealous.
M. Shots in a duel killed Pushkin and Lermontov, pierced by a bullet, Mayakovsky's heart stopped beating, insane cruelty ended the life of Nikolai Gumilyov ... How many poets Russia lost prematurely!
AND. How to resurrect them! How to revive? Living water can truly be our touch to his poems, our memory of them. Only then will the "gardens of the soul" of the dead poets blossom and surprise us with their beauty and nobility.
Vasinsky V.("Gardens of the Soul" N. Gumilyov).
The gardens of my soul are always patterned,
In them the winds are so fresh and quiet,
They have golden sand and black marble,
Deep, transparent pools,
The plants in them, like dreams, are extraordinary.
Like the waters in the morning, the birds turn pink,
And - who will understand the hint of an ancient mystery? -
They contain a girl in a wreath of a high priestess...
I don't look at the world of running lines
My dreams are only submissive to the eternal.
Let the sirocco rage in the desert
The gardens of my soul are always patterned.
Slide-30
M.: Great was new Age Russia
Age of victories and accomplishments.
A.: The new age of Russia was terrible
20th century
A century of wars and repressions.
AND.: The new age of Russia was beautiful
20th century
Age of poetry and love!
All in unison: What will our new century be like? 21st century? (General bow)
